


We Who Remain

by Sunfire7845 (sunfire7845)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunfire7845/pseuds/Sunfire7845
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Having lived comfortably in district twelve with his brother for years, America's life is abruptly uprooted when he volunteers in place of Canada for the Quarter Quell. Surviving the Games, protecting his brother and keeping his identity a secret is going to be much harder than he initially thought. America and Canada alternating POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This crossover is an AU, which means that Katniss and Peeta do not exists in the story although some other characters are present. The story is written for any thg/aph fans out there. I know you're there. And if there's nobody then sssh, this is my guilty pleasure, okay?
> 
> Just some stuff to clear up before we begin: unlike most other crossovers of this category, I won't be bringing too many nations into this story. It'll focus primarily on America and Canada, their relationship (because I am a sucker for the brothers okay) and maaaaaaybe England or France but we'll see. Also, whatever happened in the past will be revealed in the story so don't worry about it.
> 
> This story was inspired by RinaCath's own thg/aph crossover called Panem's Games, which I'd read almost two years ago and still induces nightmares sometimes. Kudos to you, dude.
> 
> No beta. Any mistakes are mine. Sorry.

Chapter 1

_"Don't leave me now!" He grabbed England's hand as they both lay on the ground, tears in his eyes. Around them, the sound of guns firing and explosions could be heard. "Have you seen Alfred? Have you?" The repeated words pounded in his head. Alfred, America, his brother..._

_England didn't reply, green eyes staring blankly back at him. And that was when he noticed the thin trail of blood making its way down England's pale face, a startling dash of colour against white._

_A laugh punctuated the air. Canada whirled around, fists bunched up and ready to take on whatever was coming for him. But instead, a voice whispered directly into his ear, chills making its way up his body._

_"America has fallen. The whole world has fallen. You're next, Canada."_

"NO!"

Canada shot up in his bed, the last remnants of his scream still lingering in the air.

It was a dream, just another stupid dream that always came on the day the reaping took place. Blindly, Canada tumbled out of bed and tripped on a mat as he made his way to the tiny kitchen, the scent of warm soup quickly chasing away the nightmare from his mind.

America was stirring the pot of soup; he was already in his miner's outfit, dirty soil marring the top of the stove as he spooned the soup into two tiny metal bowls. Nodding at his brother as he placed the bowls on the wooden table and grabbed a seat for himself, America tore a measly piece off an old loaf of bread and dipped it into the soup. "Morning, Matt. And Happy Reaping Day to you! May the odds be ever in your favour!" An undercurrent of bitterness could clearly be heard, belying centuries of anger and frustration. When his brother didn't reply, America looked up. "You had that dream again, didn't you?"

"Does it even matter?" Canada said dully as he dipped his spoon into the bowl.

America's gaze softened. "You're my brother. Of course it does."

Nothing was said in the next few minutes as the two brothers ate their breakfast. The only sounds to be heard was the clanking of spoons against metal as they drank and ate, lapping up every single scrap of food.

America was the first to finish. Dropping his bowl into the sink, he took off out of the front door and waved one last time at Canada, who halfheartedly waved back at his brother with his spoon.

"I'll see if I can get another loaf of bread at the bakery when I get back before the Reaping!" America yelled as he hurried down the lane. It might have been Reaping day, but miners like America were still required to work half a day. Nobody wanted to waste any time around here in District 12.

With his brother gone, Canada started gathering up his own materials. With a glance at the clock and mentally counting down the time before the Reaping started, he took the basket of herbs he usually kept by the cold fireplace and rearranged them. Soon enough, there was a small knock on the door and Canada rose, opening the door to reveal a young girl with matted dark hair, her eyes staring pleadingly up at him.

"Who's sick this time, Anya?" Canada said kindly as he motioned for the girl to step inside the house, his voice still hoarse from shouting in his sleep.

"My brother, he's coughing and coughing, he doesn't stop." The girl was desperate. "Please, Mr Williams, can you help us, we need to get him up before the Reaping starts-"

Without hesitation, Canada grabbed the basket and followed the girl out of the door. The sun was just breaking over the horizon and despite the dust floating around in the air, Canada inhaled deeply. The inhabitants of District 12 were just waking up, the sound of people working and chatting in the air. As he walked, Canada was struck by how quiet the district had become in the past week. Every face he met was blank, expressionless. It was as if they were waiting for a bell to chime, signalling their imminent death.

 _It is Reaping Day, after all._  Canada thought bitterly to himself as he adjusted the basket on his wrist and followed the girl.

Another year of the games. Another year of Panem's cruel games and tricks, manipulating his own citizens against each other and sowing fear in them. Another year of watching mere children fight to death on live broadcasts, killing each other brutally while the citizens in the Capitol cheered and cheered.

How could anyone be so cruel? _How_?

"Matthew!" Canada turned around as he saw Mr. Andrews, his supplier of herbs. "What're you doing? It's Reaping day, you shouldn't be out on your rounds!"

Canada waved back. "A healer never really rests, sir!" Even if it was Reaping Day. All the more to do his duty, to make up for his failures in the past by helping Panem's citizens one at the time.

"Where's your brother?"

Canada stiffened. "He's working the morning shift at the mines."

Mr. Andrews sniffled. "On Reaping Day? Isn't it illegal?"

Canada shrugged. He didn't care whether if it was illegal or not. It brought in the money for them. Hell, if it was illegal, good! Silent rebellion was better than willingly submitting to the rules.

The girl was waiting for him at the door of her tiny shack. "Mr. Williams, please..."

"I'm coming, don't worry," said Canada kindly as he made his way over to the house. Around him, people were starting to get ready for the reaping. The black market was closing early, the illegal goods carted away before the Capitol guards could see them and the people were hiding away all their food and anything precious to them. Nobody was taking any risks.

In a world like this, taking risks only resulted in suffering and ultimately, death.

* * *

America kicked the front door open with his boot. In his mind, he could just visualise his brother frowning at him, hands on his hip and saying, "America, we only have one door, please be more prudent with it."

Dropping his helmet on the table as he went, America entered the tiny bathroom and quickly rinsed his face and hands, staring into the cracked mirror that hung above the sink. His hair was getting long, the wavy ends touching his shoulders. Blue eyes glittered under his glasses which had been taped together with duct tape so many times he'd forgotten how it felt to wear glasses that weren't broken. Absentmindedly, he adjusted them and traced the small scar that ran down his right eye, a souvenir he'd acquired after the last fight with Panem.

"God bless America," he chuckled, a hollow sound that echoed. "Land of the free." The last word was whispered, a bitter reminder of his failure to protect his own people.

Quickly, America changed out of his dirty outfit. Canada had laid out a clean pair of clothes out for him on their bed before he'd went out and America changed into those, inhaling the fresh scent on the shirt.

America was just combing back his rebellious hair when Canada entered the bedroom. "Hey Matt, what's up? You look like someone just ran over your pet beaver."

Canada punched America lightly in the shoulder. "Shut up, Al. Go and wait outside, I need to change."

America rolled his eyes. "What are you, a girl?" One glare by Canada had his hands in the air. "Alright, geez! I'll wait outside!"

After what felt like an eternity as America tapped his feet impatiently on the floor, Canada emerged from the bedroom, his blonde hair sleeked back and all the dust scrubbed clean from his pale face. His clothes were identical to America's, prompting a gasp of mock outrage from America. "Did you buy these from a discount sale or something?"

"We're twins." was the response from Canada as he purposefully stepped on America's shoes, eliciting a squeak of pain from his brother in return. "Nothing wrong with wearing the same clothes, eh?"

The entire town was solemn as the brothers made their way to the square. People were huddled against each other and at the front, the eligible competitors of the Hunger Games were fenced in like sheep going to the slaughterhouse, their expressions ranging from fear to apathy.

America thanked his lucky stars that he and Canada's names were never entered into the Games as they were deemed too old to be eligible. But surely there were people in the district who noticed that the brothers never aged, forever staying young and youthful. Canada and America had argued on the issue countless times, debating whether to move to another district when the time was right. But district twelve was like home to them now after all these years, and to move away from all their friends and neighbours was something America had never even considered.

The representative for district twelve, Effie Trinket was already on stage as America and Canada jostled their way through the crowd. Despite the atmosphere, there were mutters among the older residents of the district. This year was a Quarter Quell, the third one ever to be held and bets were going around on the twist to the Games this year. Inwardly, America's heart pounded like a drum. What if everyone's names were in the glass bowl at the moment? His name, and more importantly, Canada's name?

"Good morning, everyone and Happy Reaping Day to you all!" Effie Trinket trilled in her annoying high-pitched voice, her hair dyed bright yellow and orange for the occasion. "May the odds be ever in your favour!" She paused. "Now, everyone knows what this year is... yes! It's a Quarter Quell!" She waited for a cheer from the crowd, but none came so she merely continued with her rehearsed speech. "Let us now look to the screen and view the President's address to Panem in celebration of this occasion!"

America's mouth twisted into an ugly frown as President Snow came onto the screen. Besides him, Canada seethed silently. President Snow was in his usual fine attire as he looked into the cameras and spoke, addressing the entire nation.

"Happy Reading Day to you, Panem!" President Snow rumbled. "As everyone knows, this year's games will be a Quarter Quell. I have here," he gestured to a glass bowl in front of him on his mahogany table, pieces of paper already placed inside it. "the twist to this year's Quarter Quell. What will it be? Even I have no idea. These twists for a Quarter Quell were written by those who ruled before me-"

"You mean Panem himself wrote those damn things," Canada whispered. America stepped on his foot, silencing him as a Capitol guard stared suspiciously at them.

President Snow dug into the glass bowl. All over Panem, breathes were held and nothing could be heard as the president finally fished out a small piece of paper from the bottom of the bowl before unfurling it.

"For this Quartell Quell, every single citizen of Panem under the age of thirty is eligible to enter the Games!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross-posted from fanfiction.net sorry for the delay

**Chapter 2**

_America dragged himself up. His face was bleeding; a huge open wound running down the side of his face, blood dripping onto the floor as he took one step at the time towards nothing in particular. He inhaled, then exhaled. The air was smoky and he could hear screaming and gunshots in the distance._

_"Canada... England...?" He was delusional now, the blood loss making him giddy. He had to find them, get them out as soon as possible. He'd lost. They'd all lost the war. It was time to retreat._

_America hadn't taken more than five steps when he saw_ him.  _The newly-declared nation of what had once been North America._

_Panem._

_America staggered back, backpedaling as fast as his injured legs could go. Even at this distance, he could see the metallic glint of a handgun in Panem's hands. Blood was already smeared on the handle and he tried not to think too much about whose blood it was._

_"Hello, America." Panem's voice was mocking, a triumphant edge to his words. "Running won't solve anything now. You've lost. Surrender and I might spare you."_

_America bared his teeth in a feral smile. "You know, Panem, in my country, we have a certain expression to give to losers like you." He flipped both middle fingers at Panem. "Fuck you. I'm not going down without taking you with me."_

_Panem sighed and cocked his gun. "God, are you a stubborn bastard. If you insist, then."_

_A gunshot rang out._

_When America looked down at his abdomen, he could see the red stain slowly seeping out under his clothes from the bullet Panem had fired at him. Strangely, he felt no pain. He was so numb he didn't feel anything, just shock._

That was how America felt now, as the crowd erupted into chaos around him; Canada standing by his side just as equally stunned, his mouth hanging open comically. America felt numb, his body stiff and sluggish, his vision blurring at the edges.

Capitol guards were bringing two new glass bowls onto the stage. Males and females under the age of thirty. All their names, swimming inside the very same bowl that was placed before Effie Trinket. His name, Canada's name, the young men he worked along with during the morning shifts in the mines...

Effie smiles delicately at the crowd, but America can see her facade slip slightly, as she saw the crowd before her reacting to President Snow's announcement. Men with families staring blankly at the stage, their children clinging onto them. Women wept openly, tears clinging to their dusty faces.

America felt sick.

"As usual," Effie said, her voice wobbling slightly. "Ladies first!" Delicately, she snatched the top slip of paper from the first glass bowl, flattening it out to read the name. "Trisha Randall!"

A young girl who couldn't possibly have been more than fourteen was led to the front by the guards. She was openly crying; her face red as tears streamed down her face. Her family was silent; probably too stunned at their bad luck and misfortune to say or do anything.

"And now, for the male tribute!" Effie's hand reached into the other glass bowl, this time rummaging around the bottom for the lucky winner.

America stared at the stage – at the slips of white paper inside the glass bowl, which was currently being shifted around by Effie. Next to him, Canada's hands were clenching in tension; his knuckles white as he stared down at the ground, steadily, refusing to look up.

_Please don't let it be Mattie, please... I don't care if it's me, just don't let it be Matthew._

Effie finally pulled out a stubborn piece of crumpled paper from the bottom of the bowl, uncurling it to read the name. She squinted for a second, before breaking out into a wide smile. "And we have our male tribute... Matthew Williams!"

America's world had gone blank. The noise from the crowd receded, the colours faded to grey and all he could see was the slip of paper in Effie Trinket's hands, his brother's name written on it carelessly.

_Not Matthew, no, no no no... if there is ever a God up there, let this be a mistake. Not Matthew, please don't put Matthew into the Games, he won't survive a day..._

Effie peered out into the crowd. "Matthew Williams, where are you?" Her eyes searched the crowd, probably hoping to find the lucky tribute.

Canada had gone rigid next to America; his hands gripping the front of his trousers so tight that it was probably going to rip under the pressure. Heads were starting to turn in their direction, all eyes on the shy young man with the glasses and violet eyes, his body trembling.

Somewhere from the crowd, a small sob could be heard. America turned to see a little girl clenching onto her mother's skirts, her eyes tearing up.

America felt his heart break. The girl was probably one of Canada's many patients in district twelve. What would the district do without its resident healer slash doctor?

Capitol guards were starting to bully through the crowd to get to Canada, who was still frozen on the spot. It wasn't until the little girl started sobbing that he snapped back into reality. "I'm here!" Canada yelled in the general direction of Effie Trinket, putting his hand high into the air. "I'm Matthew Williams!"

"Well, come up here then, young man!" Effie gestured impatiently to the stage. "We need Panem to see your face! The lucky male tribute for this year's Quarter Quell from district twelve!"

As Canada was about to start towards the stage, America grabbed his arm. There was no way in hell he was letting his brother up there to be whisked away to the Capitol for the Games.

"Matthew," America managed to choke out, his voice an octave higher than it naturally was. "Don't go, please, don't do it."

Capitol guards pushed America away from Canada; roughly pulling his hand away from his brother's arm and sending him sprawling into the dirt, choking on the sand.

"No!" cried Canada, as he tried to get to the fallen America. "Don't hurt him!" The guards paid him no heed; they merely prodded him roughly towards the stage where more guards and Effie Trinket waited – a huge, fake smile on her powdered face.

America gasped; his stomach hurt and a thin line of blood ran from his nose where it had struck the ground. Gingerly, he touched it. America might have been a powerful Nation before, but that fact no longer helped him. He was as weak as a human now and had been ever since North America had fallen. The only vestige that remained from his days as a Nation was his youth and longevity, but that didn't help much when he was injured and needed to heal quickly.

He sat up, his head spinning. Despite that, he still managed to spot Canada heading towards the stage escorted by an envoy of Capitol guards, his face pale, but stern.  _Shit, Canada really is serious on entering the Games._

Distinctly, he remembered England's last words to him, spoken through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth; remembered the promise he had made to his dearest friend when the older man had been dying in his arms.

_Protect your brother. Protect yourselves. Survive, and win._

"I volunteer as a tribute!"

A harsh silence fell. Never before had America heard the quietness that had now settled over the residents of district twelve and the visitors from the Capitol. From his position, he could see Canada gaping at him, his expression torn between outrage and fear.  _Sorry brother, couldn't let you enter the Games. The hero always keeps his promises._

Effie was the first to react, her face instantly lighting up. District twelve had never had volunteers for many years and this year was obviously going to be very different, judging by the way things were going down. "A volunteer! Oh, this is fantastic! May I have your name, please?"

"Alfred Jones!" America yelled, in case Effie couldn't hear him, since he was standing pretty far away from her.

Effie squinted at America. "Come up here, Alfred! The cameras need to see you more clearly!" Her teeth flashed white in the afternoon sun. "Behold, district twelve's first ever male volunteer!"

"No!" Canada's cry of desperation was broken, hurt. "Alfred, no!"

America didn't look back at Canada, who was now getting restrained by the Capitol guards from running to his brother. _Don't look back. Don't look at his face._

Effie peered closely at America as he walked up the stage, the silent crowd tracking every movement he made. Effie's eyes were scanning the blood on his face and the dust in his clothes. She had probably noticed the identical clothing he had to Matthew, because she instantly tutted. "Well then, Alfred, why don't you tell us why you volunteered? As far as history goes back, district twelve's never had a volunteer, before! Why the sudden change now?"

America stood on the stone stage, staring out into the faces of the still-silent crowd before him. From his point of view, he could see Canada struggling against the guards, trying to fight his way to his brother. But other than that, everyone was silently waiting for his answer, his reason in volunteering. He could see Old Joe, the boss who supervised America's mining division, standing by the side of a stone pillar, his eyes worried; Bran and Will, who worked the morning shifts with him, were looking upwards towards him, their expressions shocked, but weary.

He took a deep breath before speaking, the mic amplifying his voice, making sure that everyone could hear him. "I did it for my brother." He faltered for a second. "My brother, Matthew."

The crowd sighed in understanding.

Effie snatched the mic away from under America's mouth, already speaking. "Matthew Williams is your brother? Well, silly me, I should've known by your looks and identical clothing!" She tutted again before taking America and the female tribute's hands, lifting them into the air. "Ladies and gentlemen of district twelve, I give you: your tributes for this year's Quarter Quell! Alfred Jones and Trisha Randall! Let's hear a round of applause for them!"

America could hear a distant sob from the female tribute.

The crowd wasn't cheering.

Silently, near the front, Will kissed the three middle fingers of his hand, before lifting them into the air; a salute towards America.

America saw Canada's eyes widen, as the people mirrored Will's actions; kissing their fingers and lifting their hands into the air solemnly towards the stage. It wasn't until every man, woman and child had put their hand into the air did Canada do the same thing, his hand rising shakily into the air, his chest heaving with emotion.

And now, America himself felt like crying; his brain finally threatening to overwhelm him, as his knees trembled. The people were saying goodbye to him and indirectly respecting him for his courage, although he was certainly not feeling very courageous, at the moment.

Effie stared uncomfortably at the silent crowd, their hands still in the air, as she gestured for the guards to usher America and the female tribute into the building that was currently used by the Capitol for their official business.

The last thing America saw before the guards shoved him into the building and the steel doors closed behind him was the crowd; still silent, hands in the air, bidding him farewell.

* * *

They gave him three minutes to say goodbye to Canada.

The first thing Canada did when he entered the room was to cling onto America tightly, his hands bunched up in the fabric of America's shirt.

"I can't believe it, you idiot." whispered Canada into his brother's ear. In response, America's grip on him tightened. "You volunteered. You fucking volunteered. What did you think you were doing?"

America gave a raspy laugh. "Saving your sorry ass from the Games, that's what I was doing. Did you really think I was going to let you enter the Games? You wouldn't last five minutes in the arena, bro." His eyes were watering under his glasses as he pushed himself away from Canada's embrace. "I'm going to win this fucking thing, and then I'll come back to you. I promise."

Canada was shaking his head predictably. America grabbed him by the shoulders and stared deep into his twin's purple eyes. "Hey, have some faith in me. I'll win; and when I do, we'll be rich. Hot water, warm food, beds with sheets. How does that sound to you? It'll be great, I promise." America was babbling now, but he didn't care. He didn't have much time left to speak with Matthew and the traitorous clock was still ticking in the background.

"But the tributes this year," Canada whispered. "They're all older, stronger; you only look- I mean, you're only nineteen for god's sake, Alfred!"

America put on his familliar grin. "Always the worrier, Mattie. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."  _Yeah, it's only the Hunger Games, where one person out of twenty-four survives. No big deal._  "Promise me you'll stay safe, that you'll look after yourself while I'm gone. Can you at least reassure me of that?"

Canada was silent for a while. "Yes." It was barely a whisper.

"Good." Abruptly, America pulled his brother into a bone-crushing embrace that had the younger twin wincing. America might not have had his super strength anymore, but he was still strong. "And if I ever meet Panem, I'll stick a spear and a thousand arrows up his cursed ass for both our sake."  _And England's._

"Time's up," a Capitol guard standing at the door announced flatly. "The train to the Capitol departs in fifteen minutes, Mr Jones. Your brother will have to leave, now."

"Wait!" Canada fumbled around in his pocket, searching for something. When he finally withdrew his hand from it, America could see something golden glint from under Canada's closed palm. "I ran home just now to get this for you. I had it stashed away in the biscuit tin under the sink." Canada chuckled. "A small souvenir from our past."

When his brother uncurled his fist, America inhaled sharply. In Canada's palm was a small, golden pin with the American flag emblazoned on it; the blue, red and white colours were still shiny and new even after all these years of hiding in a biscuit tin under the leaky sink in their house, the white stars twinkling under the artificial lighting of the room.

"Matt, I-" America's voice was choked up, he couldn't articulate his words properly anymore. "How-"

Canada fastened the pin onto the collar of America's shirt, his fingers working deftly. "You gave it to me, remember? At the United Nations meeting in New York, years and years ago, you handed out these pins to every single delegate from every nation, asking them to support you in the upcoming war." His mouth twitched. "About half of them threw theirs away into the dustbin, though. I still kept mine, eh. Never even thought about disposing of it even after all these years."

America touched the pin hesitantly. The surface was smooth, the metal cold. "Thank you, Matt," he said softly, in a tone that meant everything.

Canada nodded back in response. They didn't need anymore words to convey their thoughts and feelings.

The guards soon escorted Canada out from the room, as America flopped back down on the silken sofa, his fingers still caressing the top of the pin.

* * *

Effie was waiting for America at the station. "What took you two so long?" she demanded impatiently, as she tapped her foot on the ground. "We have to get to the Capitol by nightfall – we can't afford anymore delays! Do you want to look bad when you arrive late and see that every other district has arrived before you?"

America lugged behind on purpose. In front of him, Trisha nearly tripped, as the Capitol guards pushed her along to the train. Before he entered the train, America took one final look around the district that had been his home for almost seventy-five years, breathing in the dusty scent from the mines. If he strained his eyes in that one particular direction hard enough, he swore he could see smoke rising from his house's chimney. Was Canada sitting by the fireplace now, comforting himself by eating a hot meal for once? Was he grieving for his brother, awaiting his return from the Games?

"Come on, Alfred, move!" Effie cried as she poked her head out from the carriage of the train. "We don't have all day! And you need to meet your new mentor, he's waiting for you in here!"

America sighed and straightened his hunched back, glancing once again at the district. _I'll win, and I'll be back. Wait for me, Canada._

At exactly three in the afternoon, the train carrying both tributes finally pulled out of the station; leaving district twelve and Canada far, far behind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross-posted from ff.net

**Chapter 3**

When America stumbled into the moving carriage, his head was pounding dully. Effie was already seated at a mahogany table, with Trisha sitting opposite her in a fancy chair. There was an empty seat next to Trisha and America dropped himself into the seat, putting his legs up on the table.

Effie frowned at America. It was only then when he noticed the other empty seat next to Effie.

"Who else is coming to the party?" America jested, trying to lighten up the somber mood. When nobody smiled, he shrugged. "I tried."

"Your mentor is supposed to be here." Effie glanced at the clock on the wall; a forced smile on her face. "I supposed he's still busy preparing himself..."

The door to the compartment slid open loudly, crashing unceremoniously into the side of the wall.

"What did I miss?" America's new mentor for the Games was holding a glass of what was definitely not water, swirling it around, as he peered at the new tributes from district twelve. His blue eyes fell upon America before widening quickly. "Oh."

America stood up abruptly, pushing his chair so hard that it toppled onto the floor. Ignoring Effie's horrified declaration of "That was mahogany!", he stared upon the face of his supposed long dead friend, his emotions rushing from surprise to fear and then to anger.

Francis Bonnefoy stared back; the wine in his hands completely forgotten.

Effie stood up instantly, noticing the sudden spike of tension in the room. "Alfred, this is your new mentor. His name is Francis Brown and he's from the Capitol, or was it district one...?"

"District one." Francis whispered hoarsely, as he looked upon a familiar face from a past long gone – a past where all his friends were dead.

America was still standing rigidly; his hands shaking by his side as he balled them up.  _He can't be here. He died, I saw his body that day._

Effie looked from America to Francis to America again. Poor Trisha just stared vacantly out of the window, ignoring the boiling atmosphere.

"Uh, do you two know each other?" Effie was trying to break the ice again, bless her.

It wasn't until Francis laughed loudly and draped his arm around a startled America that the tension in the room was broken. "I'm so sorry, excuse my bad manners. I should've introduced myself! Francis Brown, new mentor for district twelve at your service."He waved his glass of wine in a wide arc, nearly hitting Effie in the face. "Oops, sorry there Effie. Alfred here, I knew him from a long time ago! He's my brother's nephew, actually. How many years has it been since I last saw you, Alfred?"

America suddenly understood the game France was playing at the moment. "About ten years ago, I think?" America replied, forcing a smile onto his face.

Effie clapped her hands together. "Splendid! I'm sure you two will be able to get along well and get well prepared for the Games, then!" At the mention of the Games, France's smile suddenly dropped and Effie noticed. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sure you two will want some time to connect with each other again before we reach the Capitol. Come on, Trisha." Effie took the young girl by the hand. "We'll be in the next carriage if you need us."

It wasn't until Effie had left the compartment with Trisha that France placed his glass down on the mahogany table and America allowed himself to react in the most suitable manner.

He punched France in the face.

France went sprawling to the ground. America laughed bitterly. "I see the years haven't made you stronger, France."

"You're lucky, boy." France sat up with a groan, massaging his head tenderly. "There are no surveillance equipment in this room. It's supposed to be for the mentors and the tributes to meet and discuss their plans, which means no monitoring."

America sat down in the nearest chair, arms crossed. "Talk. Before I punch you again."

France rolled his eyes. "You, on the other hand, have become altogether too violent. What will dear old England say when he sees you like this?"

"England won't say anything, because England is  _dead_!" America particularly yelled out the last word. "Why didn't you contact us? Why didn't you even send a single message to us? We all thought you were dead!"

"Us? We?" France leaned down and looked America in the eyes. It wasn't until then did America realised how haggard and... _old_  France had become. His previously long hair had been cropped short, his beard longer and there were more lines on his face now. The only thing that remained the same were his bright blue eyes, which still sparkled with life. "America, who else survived?"

America gulped. "Canada."

France grabbed tightly onto America' sleeve. "Are you telling me the truth?" His voice had dropped to a whisper. "Matthew? He's alive?"

"France, you're hurting me." France instantly released America. "Canada lives with me. He got picked as a tribute, but I volunteered in his place." America swallowed. "France, the Games...". He wrinkled his face. "Wait, how did you end up working with the Capitol as a mentor, anyway?"

France poured himself another glass of wine from the nearest table. "They're short on mentors in the Capitol, America." He drank deeply. "I had to pass lots of tests before they deemed me to be suitable as a mentor. As you know, most mentors are victors from previous Games, but most mentors are too old to coach the new round of tributes coming in every year, so they sent out notices for people who were interested in being mentors. And here I am." France opened his arms wide and gestured to himself. "What's your story?"

America stubbornly shook his head. "No, you first. How did you end up in district one? I saw your body, I saw you bleeding and dying on the ground in the fire..."

France smiled sadly. "You are right, America. On the bleeding and dying part. The body part, not so much." He drank again. "Panem shot me in the leg. I was already weak, so very weak after my country fell. One shot was all it took to take me down. Take me down, yes, but not enough to kill me."

"Your body was never found," America admitted grudgingly. "I thought, maybe, you'd drifted into the ocean..."

France shook his head. "I saw you in the fire, America. I saw England too, saw dear Matthew rush in to save you. Panem was inside the White House burning down everything, yes? Thank God I was outside. Before anyone could see me, I rolled into a ditch nearby, got up and ran. Like the coward I've always been." He laughed without mirth. "My leg was hurting me so I couldn't get far. There were trees and bushes all around me and that was the last thing I remember before I fell on the ground and passed I woke up, I was in a refugee tent and my leg was no longer there." France lifted up the right side of his trousers and America inhaled in shock. France's right leg was a mechanical contraption; the gears inside whirring away methodically. Strange lights flashed on its surface. Noticing the horror on America's face, France quickly let his trousers fall. "They told me Panem had won the war and that the survivors were being herded into the new districts. They told me I was in district one. Apparently, some passerby had seen me lying in the ditch and had brought me to the nearest refugee camp, never knowing who I truly was."

"How long have you lived there?" America whispered, his mind still on France's mechanical leg.

France shrugged. "As long as Panem has been established." He stared steadily at America. "Your turn now, my dear America. But tell me one thing before you begin..."

America perked up. "What?"

France took a deep breath. "England. How did he die?"

"Same as you nearly did, I guess." America snorted at the irony. "Shot in the stomach at point blank by Panem himself." Even after all the years, America's hands still shook whenever he thought about it; the gruesome details forever etched into his mind, the betrayed expression on England's face as he touched the wound... "We never thought he'd become like this. Panem. He was just a small kid who grew big too fast. We never knew..."

France was silent now, staring into the depths of the wine. America continued to talk: "I held him when he died, you know. England. The stubborn bastard refused to let go without a fight. He told me..." America took a deep breath. "He told me to survive and to avenge everyone. He told me to look after Matthew."

"So that's why you volunteered for dear Matthew," mused France. "Interesting. But I think the more interesting thing is _how_  we are still alive, even when our nations have gone. Have we become like Prussia once was? Which means the possibility of you dying in the Games..."

America sat up straighter. "France, the Games-"

France waved his question away dismissively. "We'll talk about those pesky Games later. But for now, we need to lay down some rules for when we get to the Capitol. I don't need to remind you that calling me by my nation name isn't really recommendable, _oui_?"

America nodded. France continued. "And you need to change your looks. If Panem finds out about you..."

America groaned. "I think it's a bit too late for that, France. My name is down as Alfred Jones. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out who I am and Panem is not a genius. Not by a long shot."

"There are lots of Alfred Jones' in the country," countered France. "If you don't plan to disguise yourself and your name, at _least_  keep a low profile. I can't exactly get aid and sponsors for you if the first thing you do when you get to the Capitol is to march up to Panem and attempt to stab him in the chest."

"Panem doesn't even go out for anything," America said sourly. "He usually uses the President for his dirty work."

"I know, America." France sighed. "But you're not exactly a nation now, are you? You get hurt easily, you bleed easily, you _will_  die easily. Best not to pick fights. Let me be the one who speaks on your behalf and represent you in the public eye,  _oui_?"

"I'm worried for Matthew," America suddenly blurted out, his fingers tightly grasped together. "Once Panem finds out who I am, he'll probably know about Matthew too. Hell, the first volunteer from district twelve who volunteers for his brother and that volunteer turns out to be America. Gee, I wonder who his brother could be?"

France frowned. "You're right. But in the meantime, Panem still doesn't know about you and let's keep it that way, alright? At least, until the day you have to present yourself to the President."

"The Games..." America was determined not to let that slack. He was going to survive the games – that much he'd promised Canada. "God, France, it's a Quarter Quell too. How am I going to win this crap?"

France stood up and patted America reassuringly on the back, before he strolled to the door to let Effie and Trisha into the room. "Don't worry too much about that. Wait until we get to the Capitol – we'll have plenty of time to worry there. And you _are_  going to tell me how you survived and got yourself herded into district twelve in the beginning, dear America." His eyes softened. "It's good to see another nation after all these centuries. Words cannot express how grateful I am that you and Matthew are alive."

America smiled warily, but before he could reply, Effie bounded into the room, poor Trisha getting dragged by the older woman in her exuberance. "So, how was the family reunion?" Effie said loudly, her eyes widening when she saw the purple bruise forming on France's cheek. "What happened here?"

America grabbed the nearest glass chalice and poured himself some wine from the same bottle France had drank from. "I punched him."

Effie gaped. "Alfred Jones, you cannot go around punching your mentor-!"

"It's okay, Effie," France waved again and nearly hit Effie with his glass. "Sorry. Alfred was just expressing some anger at me for not staying in contact with him after so many, many years!"

Effie stared beadily at America. "Alfred, you must learn to control that temper of yours..."

"It's nothing," France laughed as he drank, "Why, that temper and strength of his might just win the Games for him!" He winked at America. "See you around, Alfred. I need to sleep – I haven't had a nap since the train came from the Capitol."

After France had staggered out and almost hit the door in the process, Effie turned her attention back to America. "I know how Francis looks like, but at his core he has a kind heart. He just drinks a lot." _A lot is an understatement,_  America thought. "Give him a chance, he's the one who's going to guide you through your training and presentations."

America just shrugged in response and drank even more. If he was going to arrive in the Capitol, let him arrive drunk. He didn't particularly care for appearances anymore. He just wanted everything to be over with.

* * *

When America stepped into the room, France's last words to him were still ringing in his ears.

"Don't make enemies in the Capitol. Be courteous to everyone, including the other tributes and yes, that includes the Careers." France's lip had twisted when he'd said the word. "This is going to be hard enough as it is, don't cause extra trouble. And above all, communicate with your stylist. He's the one who has to dress you up for your presentations and ceremonies."

"Welcome, Alfred Jones. My name is Cinna and I am the stylist of district twelve for this year's Quarter Quell." His stylist was soft spoken, a kind light in his eyes as he looked America up and down. America knew he wasn't particularly good looking at the moment; his clothes were dusty, his boots scuffed, his hair sticking up at weird angles and the heavy duct tape holding his glasses together probably wasn't helping either. "Hm, you don't look like you need much tidying up. Maybe trim the hair a little, and those glasses-" As he reached out to take America's glasses, America jerked back, shaking his head.

"No, these stay. Work around them." America stared defiantly at Cinna, daring him to take his glasses away.

Cinna smiled. "Very well, I won't touch them. Let's discuss some very important things then, Alfred. As you know, district twelve is known for its coal mining..."

America groaned. "Don't tell me. I have to dump coal dust all over myself for the presentation." He could just hear the laughter coming from the Capitol's citizens, as they pointed at him and jeered. Canada would be probably burying himself in the thin blanket out of embarrassment, as he watched his brother get humiliated in front of millions, live on television.

"Traditionally, that is what stylists for district twelve go for. But this year," Cinna patted down a stray strand of blonde hair from America's fringe. "I am going to go for something different." That was when he noticed the pin on America's jacket. "Is this your token?"

America's fingers instinctively went to the pin. "My brother, Matthew, he gave it to me before I left."

"It's beautiful." mused Cinna as he stared at the pin. "The colours... red, blue and white. Not something you see everyday, mind you. What does it symbolises?"

America's throat tightened abruptly as he tensed, his hand still clasping the pin. Should he tell the truth? Cinna seemed like an honourable man. Could he trust him? "It's the American flag, actually. The colours too." A moment later, America laughed loudly. "I'm sorry, you probably don't even know what I'm talking about."

An odd, closed expression had come over Cinna. "The American flag," he repeated. "America."

America nearly responded out of reflex, but caught himself in time. "Yeah." he managed to say, a small smile on his face.

Cinna was still deep in thought. "Funny though," he said, as he continued prowling around America, looking him up and down. "The history of Panem has been altered so many times that the past is too confusing to see through, but many citizens of Panem do not know that their ancestors are of North American descent or even if they do, they don't acknowledge it."

America couldn't help himself. "Maybe if Panem didn't try to bury the history of the country, people would know." Too late. America clapped his hand over his mouth, as he glanced around the room for any signs of camera surveillance.  _Shit, I have to control my mouth more carefully..._

Cinna merely smiled. "Don't worry, this room is not monitored by the Capitol. It gives us stylists maximum secrecy when it comes to presenting our design. So, you identify as American, Alfred?"

America was treading in dangerous waters now and one wrong move would lead to him drowning. "Well, my ancestors were of North American descent, so technically, I  _am_  American."  _I am America._  "My brother though, he identifies as Canadian. Not much difference, actually." _He'd kill me if he heard me say that._ "Uh, I don't see how any of this has to do with our chariot presentation to the Capitol..."

Cinna clapped America on the back. "Don't worry about it. Now that I've spoken to you, I know just exactly what I have to do to make you look stunning before President Snow." There was a sly curve to his lip now, that spoke of a hidden promise. "I believe your mentor is waiting for you outside. I'll see you soon, Alfred Jones."

"Yeah," replied America automatically. "Thanks." Even as France waited for him, he saw Cinna staring at the American pin on his jacket. Reflexively, America's fingers went to little metal token.

_I am America. And nobody will ever take that away from me._

* * *

France had some bad news for America. It was pretty evident, by the way the older man didn't speak a single word until they'd reached the apartment assigned to district twelve's tributes. France had instantly grabbed a fancy glass chalice from the nearby shelves and poured himself a drink.

America waited.

It wasn't until France had drained the whole cup and put it on the table, did he start speaking. "Today, I got some news from one of my friends working inside the government's inner circles. President Snow is apparently very, very curious about this year's tributes from district twelve." His eyes were hard and angry. "I don't know why, but he's sniffing our every move and tracking them. And the Games haven't even started yet! This is not even legal!"

"But-" America started, but suddenly stopped when he saw France glare at him. The angry look in his eyes had melt away and they were frantically darting all around the apartment, trying to send a message to America.

A light bulb went off in America's head. The entire apartment was bugged.

America replied loudly. "But I haven't done anything! I did exactly what you told me to do, I didn't piss off anyone, I ate my food properly-"

France rolled his eyes mutely.

America merely continued. "And I even tried to make friends with the Careers!" True, America had caught a glimpse of the infamous Careers as he'd got off the train. This year's Careers were a lot older than they usually were and just the sight of them had sent shivers up America's spine as he quickly tried to make himself look as small as possible.

"Whatever," drawled France, as he swirled the drink in his glass, giving off the air of someone who was disinterested. "Get some rest. You've got one day to prepare for the presentation and I don't want you so worn out and tired you actually slip from your chariot during the ceremony. Now that'll be a major embarrassment. Not to mention a huge dip in people wanting to sponsor you."

"You're a dick," America groused, as he reluctantly dragged himself to the bedroom they'd prepared for him. In the distance, he could still hear France laughing as he drank even more. If France was pretending to enjoy the Games, he was putting on a damn good show.

The bedroom was lushly furnished and the bed was big enough for four men. America tumbled down onto it, not bothering to change out of his clothes or even take off his boots as he inhaled in the fresh flowered scent lingering on the sheets. God, it'd been years and years since he'd slept in a bed this luxurious and had eaten food as rich as the one he'd been served for dinner. His stomach was no longer gnawing at him as it'd been for many years in district twelve.  _This bed alone could have fed three families for a month in the Seam,_ was his glum thought, as he rolled around in the white sheets and pillows. _Maybe I could steal a lampshade and send it back to Matthew. That could last him until I get back from the Games._

As sleep slowly claimed him, America's hand once again went to the pin on his jacket, closing around it tightly in reassurance.


End file.
